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Best Railroad Poems

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New Railroad Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Railroad poems are below this new poems list.

Railroad Spikes,musings on memory by Alixopulos, ahellas
The Underground Railroad 'Slavery' by Aj, hafssa
Railroad Lullaby by lawless, John
Railroad Signs by Price, Franklin
My Railroad Journey by Reese, Charles
Where The Railroad Track Meet by lawless, John
RAILROAD TRACK SEX by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
The Abandoned Railroad by Camp, Elton
rusty rain railroad by Slausen, Anthony
A Railroad Town by Ahearn, Albert

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The Best Railroad Poems

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Memory Rides the Rails - Poem Time Forgot

Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.

Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.

Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.

Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden 
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.

Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon 
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.

Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.

Copyright, 2000



Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015

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Massacred Nation

The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives

The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go

Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf

Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones

Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down

Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain

To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs

In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift

My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed

As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see

That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash

But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong

So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php


Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009

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Music Take Me Back

When I'm blue and need something to make me smile
I can turn on my forty fives and listen for a while
Jimmy Gilmer sang about a Sugar Shack
Holding hands, walking down that railroad track
Then I let the music take me back.

Take me back to a time when love was new
Take me back to a time when skies were blue
When we could catch that falling star
Make love in the back seat of my car
Music, oh sweet music, take me back

Doo-wop memories touched my soul
Mixed with the early days of rock and roll
I close my eyes and through the haze
I see sunshine and better days
Music take me back to those times again.

There was Bandstand on TV in black and white
Radio on 'til you fell asleep at night
There were dances at the school
And swimming in the community pool
Music take me back, let me remember when.

Did we believe those days would forever last
Were things so much better in the past
I dream of days when a movie
Meant kissing in the balcony
Music take me back, let my heart roam.

It seems like a thousand years ago
We found true love and watched it grow
I know this is where my heart belongs
When I listen to those songs
Music take me back, please take me home.


Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

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The High Line

Elevated railroad tracks
Abandoned long ago
Have been transformed into a place
Where grass and flowers grow.

With benches made of wood or stone
And artwork interspersed,
The desolation and despair
Have all but been reversed.

If visiting the city
Is a plan that you have made
Then walk upon the High Line
And behold what’s there displayed.	

It’s part and parcel of the town
But also quite unique
So stroll the High Line if
A New York feeling’s what you seek.


Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2015

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Little Blue Bird of Rain

Little Blue Bird of rain.

Rain, rain go away
Little Blue Bird of Rain, needs to shine again
In her version the sun dried, up all her tears
Leaving hurtful rain inside the bird
Destructive past sudden cheers
Waking up to empty words
When abandoned by her peers
Just not knowing what had just occurred

Drowning herself in a life of Jane Doe.
Never know who she really is
When all she loves hanging her lowest moment
The rain brought out Mary-Jane.
As the bird lost its glow.
The rain tricked her once to use Cocaine.
As her feathers met that one Joe.
He broke her wing and brought more Rain.

Very young, very sweet.
Living her life in the fast lane.
Hard for her to stand on her feet.
Balanced her life on one leg, like the crane.
Curtains hang over her wings.
While she let no one near her domain.

While she flies through the heavy rain.
She finds her comfort with a pen.
Using the lords name in vain.
Cursing all her backstabbing friends
With no one around to explain?
All the sorrow left her on a railroad track.
Ending up like the runaway train.
Only she can get her life back.

If for myself I ever felt pain?
I felt more pain at what she wrote about. 
In my face on my left side 
Your poetry comes to life in my head. 
Visions of her wanting to be dead.
Oh! How I wish this life she did not dread.

You hide the tears you shed so well.
A life with balls you cut the chains.
You diss, Your parents to go to hell.
Little Blue Bird of Rain, don't let them fools drive you insane.

Little Blue Bird of Rain.
If a sparrow could show you,
There is more to life than pain.
Under the umbrella, the sparrow would cover you.
No one wants to see her colors drain.
What a world to master her feathers into art.
The gift of words runs through her vein

The paintings on her wall.
A dream of a bad seed of grain.
One day our Little Blue Bird will stand tall.
To free herself from all the Rain.


  To: Rain aka- Joy Loveless
Our sweet 16-year-old
      P.D.     1-1-10


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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North Conway Foliage Train

The very first week of every October
Bright yellow, orange, amber, purple and red
Splash artistry on New Hampshire’s White Mountains
As the tourism season comes to a head

North Conway’s old railroad station is abuzz
Men in traditional conductor attire
Escort sightseers to seats with pane-free windows
To peer out at landscapes in colors of fire

The spectrum on dappled mountains evokes awe
Caught by camera lenses as cool winds blow
Offering a chilly reminder to all
That these peaks will soon be blanketed by snow

Clickety-clack, the train hugs its aged track
Freeze-frame photograph images will remain
Recalling the splendor of fall’s peak foliage
Until spring breathes life to the mountains again 




* Rides on the North Conway train are only offered
in autumn.  Written for the "Fall" contest.


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

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Runaway Train

The slap of sneakers on concrete,
Fill my ears with hollow sound;
Like my heart it has a beat,
Steady thumps against the ground.
My eyes are wide, to take in any light,
But not many shine in the dark.
I couldnt stand another fight,
Another sharp and mean-cutting remark.
I stop to take a quick bent-over breath;
Soon I'll start again on my run.
This adreniline is like crystal-meth,
It'll keep me going, when I just want to be done.
My eyes open again in the night,
Surveying quickly the world around.
For this action I wont feel contrite,
Otherwise I'd soon be burried in the ground.
My jeans are ripped at the knees,
My shirt-a tanktop of the color black.
This need to get away is like a disease,
With not an urge to ever go back.
The lights shine on the road, a pale yellow-white,
They catch my green-blue frantic eyes.
Even with no one around, my chest squeezes tight;
Afraid that they'll wake up and find me gone, though i never said goodbye.
The railroad is up ahead, right beneath my feet.
I reach out my hand, and feel the Runaway Train.
I have one chance, I cant allow defeat.
Around the handel I toss and loop my thick silver chain,
And pull my self up, up and off the ground;
I keep up and hold on, with one last look behind.
To open the door it only takes one pound,
Then im out of the wind, inside, in the darkness, blind.
For a moment, I have the chance to breathe;
Gone from everything I've known: 
No chance of dysfunctional familys,
No chance of ever knowing home.
Runaway Train, I've runaway,
The night abducts me.
The internal disorder has led me astray;
my mind is clearer, soon youd see.
I had but one choice left,
I chose the Runaway Train...


Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2010

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January Jest - A Collaboration

A collaborative poem, written in renga format, or "linked-verse", by Timothy Hicks and Jesse Whitehead.

Verses in normal font are by me.
Verses in italic are by Jesse Whitehead.



January jest
drawing mustaches
in the newspaper

coffee to warm the hands
walking the railroad

refusing
to stay put
a child's balloon

spring in her step
red moon overhead

has dusk come already?
the field of tulips
seem to say

unwavering and gentle
strong as stone

mountain peaks
wind through summer meadows
a tender caress

lying there still
a heart-shaped mark

steady rhythm
ebb of the tide
broken shells

spiraling earthward
the last golden leaf

fading in and out
memories sweetly touched
a dancing flame

burning through pages
another x on the calendar



NOTE: This was my first attempt at a Renga poem, written in collaboration, with one of my best friends from Idaho, Jesse Whitehead. He's one of the few friends of mine whom I could discuss writing with. Though he typically writes fiction and stories, rather than poetry, he was willing to give this poetry format a go; and to my knowledge this was his first time writing poetry. It's a fun little challenge that I hope you all will give a try!


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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The Dragline

THE DRAGLINE  for Pete Brett 

One hundred foot boom 
 7-½-yard bucket 
The tracks are like 
 Ones on the tracks of a tank
They go chunk clunk and clank  

Arm of the boom swings 
 Far to the left then to right  
Out casts the bucket 
 And drags the rock in 

 Papa pushes the pedals and 
 Pulls the leavers
 Lifts the cranes bucket and 
 Swings the arm in 
 Dumps the rock into
 A pile at quarry
 
Just old black Burt, Bootsie and me
We ride in the donkey a brawny little engine
Careful now Uncle Burt I ‘am heavy as can be
He’d chuckle and let me ring the dingy
 As the donkey pulled all those gondola cars
 to the rock crusher A ring ding-a-ling
 here comes the train ring ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling

Dinner would be with Uncle Red Papa and me
 by the railroad tracks a fire warm 
and perhaps we would see
 Alligator Willy who would stop by to share
 some pickled eggs, sausages and a beer
                                                                                         
 I dance in the night by the light that comes
 from cranes rear window the light that
shines from the top of the boom
                                                                                                             
My stage is a beam of square light
and I dance and I swirl as the 
beam from the top boom does
swing. It’s better than the light from the moon
 
I spin and I dance in an out of
The shadows
I see my papa’s face
Through the crane’s side window’s panel

His arm is out stretched as he
Pushes and pulls
I wave I am tired now

He jumps from the tracks and
 Lifts me back in
His face has wide goofy grin
We share chocolate milk
From a thermos and take
 Orange marmalade Sandwiches wrapped in wax paper
 which were sticky and sweet
 from his Old battered Lunch Pail 

 when my feet were all wet He took off my shoes
 and placed them by Old Mr. Murphy as his engine was called 
 Dry and warm and cozy we’d be
Papa his dog Bootsie and me
 
 Northwest the crane that he ran At Seminole Rock
 he was considered the best Crane operator-man

He worked from dark tell the sand-man
I sleep in an empty dynamite crate
Filled with a string called waste
Used to spread thick grease
by the big diesel engine at the back
of the crane 
He shuts the doors as it’s starting to 
rain

The crane growls and grumbles
and rocks me to and fro
 like in a large giant’s lap 
as I take a nap
in dreams I spin and I dance 
by the light from the boom 
it’s better than the light
 from the moon






Copyright © JoAnne Simms | Year Posted 2012

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You've Taken Her for Granted


You call her without warning, late one Friday night,
She says “Give me half-an hour…,” and she leaves on the light.
‘Comes the morning after, eggs and bacon, coffee black—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

She isn’t quite as flashy as those others you prefer,
But like some lonesome boomerang, you return to her.
She’s got old-fashioned compassion, that these “Nineties ladies lack—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

Could it be that she loves you?
Or else got nothing else to do?
She understands you like a sister—
She’s the best friend that you knew.

Now the twisting road is narrow, when the years come crowding in,
And you look inside your glass, and see the man you might have been.
She’s got two children—she’s got a husband—and you, you’ve got the railroad track,
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always took you back
Until she found somebody new…somebody true.


Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2010

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Blackberries

I remember picking blackberries in the hot July sun; 
every morning down by the railroad tracks, 
along an old barbed wire fence.  Silver strands 
and rusty barbs, it ran for miles as if chasing the tracks.
and in places, the fence was grown over with briars 
and vines woven through the strands like a fine rug, 
but thick with green leaves and sharp pointy thorns.
If you stand in the middle of tracks on a cloudy day
they form a giant tunnel that goes forever in the distance.
You can see the long train burst through, it's smoke
lost in the low grey clouds.
We would lay along the fence beside the tracks and feel 
the earth shake as a mile of coal cars came screaming by.
I can still hear the train whistle blowing 
and the rumbling sound of a million tons of steel speeding by.
When its past we would work along the fence, 
filling our buckets with berries, 
eating only the juiciest and fattest ones,
the rest were for mothers jellies and maybe a cobbler
if she had time.
The fence is still there and the train still comes
but I wonder, were have the blackberries all gone?


Copyright © James Andersen | Year Posted 2016

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A Letter To My Hero

  


November 19, 2001


Dear Doc and Doris,

	It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. I believe it was some years ago at the Sims reunion. That was several years before we moved here to Florida after my retirement.

	I talk to Dorothy and W. D. fairly often and got your address from them a couple of months ago.  I also have a recent picture of you that was taken at Mike’s funeral in Marlow.

	I suppose it was something about that picture that caused me to begin reflecting on when I was a kid in Cameron many years ago.  We lived down below the railroad tracks there just south of the jailhouse.  I was just a kid 6 or 7 years old. Then later we moved to Houston where Dorothy and Daddy went to work in the shipyard.  I remember during those years thinking often of my cousin Carl Sims and his brother Melton Sims who were far away fighting the war against the Germans in Europe.  I still have pictures of you somewhere showing you in your uniform.  Doc, I remember how proud I was to tell everyone about my cousins in the army and how I wanted to grow up and be a soldier and fight the Germans.  

	In the last couple of years those memories have been revisited with the release of the movies “Saving Private Ryan” and even more recently, “Band of Brothers.”  Having never experienced the horrors of war, I look upon these two movies as the most realistic presentation of wartime action ever made.  Even at that, I’m sure they haven’t portrayed what it was really like. 

	Doc, I write you now having much more hindsight than when I was an impressionable kid.  But the years have not robbed me of the pride I have in calling you my hero. I think of those years when I was but a child and you, a young soldier. I remember how excited I was to hear any news about my cousins in the army. And I remember the sadness in hearing of Melton being killed in action. 

	Though time has painted a different picture for each of us, those things that linger in our memory can still be seen through the eyes of a child and a young soldier. I look at that recent picture of you and still see my hero. I see a young soldier in uniform and feel the same pride well up inside a young kid in Cameron.  
	
Doc, I wanted you to know these things.  I could have kept them hidden inside my heart and never told anyone.  But, they are mine to do with as I please. And I choose to send them to you and Doris with the love I have for you. As Christians, we know that the love we are sharing in Jesus Christ will be eternal. I believe the respect and admiration I hold you in for what you did will also last forever.  

	Maybe we will get back to Texas one of these days.  If so, I hope to have the time to come by Mexia and see you.  If not, who knows, someday a kid may tug on the sleeve of a young soldier. The young soldier might turn to find a freckle-faced kid, joyful in the presence of his hero.

	Doc, if not before, I’ll see you in Glory. I send you respect and most of all, love.

With eternal admiration,
John


Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013

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Lost in Youth

Lost in Youth

Rainbows in the clouds, walking on  railroad tracks , locomotives up close 
Kickball games , I am left footed, spooky reflections in a mirror, running naked 
Wooden desks and chairs, kids in the classroom , the little girl across the street 
Black and white T.V., Air conditioning , a new blue car, exhaust  fumes
The farm, coal fired furnace , warm heating ducts 
a collie , a cocker spaniel and a horse named Thunder
Dark starry nights , telescopes , comets and satellites
Northern winters, snow covered fields ,sledding, frozen lakes , and Orion 
Camping in fields , mosquitoes bites , quiet dawns and heavy morning  dew,  
Grandparents ,riding  lawn mowers , apple trees , flower and vegetable gardens
 Southern Summers , warm muggy nights , ceiling  fans ,open screened windows
Screened in porches, ancient toys, , tiny  transistor radios, baseball games  talking late into the night 
Badminton , side lawns , and long rides home
Public pools , icy waters and underwater swims 
Trombone , marching band and high school football games
Sleepy classes, friends , lunchroom games, and girls 
High school graduation , college and final goodbyes



Copyright © jim joyce | Year Posted 2012

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Summer's End

With brew in hand, I step into a dew laden atmosphere that lies beneath a veil of grey, through which a huge, radiating circle of red rises and burns a hole, allowing the true colors of the day to seep through. Streams of blue, bleed through the green needles of the pines, as I sip my morning coffee and marvel at the crystal pinwheel patterns spun during the night, that now hang from my weather beaten fence. 

In a melancholy breeze, I watch  through cloudy eyes, a few leaves falling from the Crimson Kings, exposing the empty Robin’s nest I watched a Robin build  - it seems - not so long ago, as I wonder through years gone by.

Across the way, where it seems only yesterday, I gazed at green pastures, I now gaze at fields of Queen Ann Lace, Golden Rods, Purple Asters and Scottish Thistles. When did, and how did all this happen? How quickly life goes by!

The sky above me turns black, as a flock of Starlings, swoop and sway and turn as one, before landing in the trees along the railroad track, breaking the silence with their deafening cries of summer's end, as a tear falls from my eye.

Author:  Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Written:  August 30, 2013


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2013

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A Black Man's Perspective

Life in Africa was full; years in the bush, a treat.
Music made us happy; drums sounded for dancing feet.
A loving life with family always made us smile.
Living together freely, we never knew defeat.

Greedy slave hunters sailed down the Nile.
Chained us below with feces and bile,
Our curiosity was a big mistake!
We lived like that for a long bad while.

Sold to the highest bidder at the market by the dock,
Herded off to cotton fields, we became their livestock.
Forced to do hard labor; whipped until bare backs bled.
Rest would never come as time ticked on the clock.

The life of a slave was hard work; at least we were fed.
Some rested in cottages, others in a shed.
Scorching sun, sweat, blood, the whip did not feel good.
Calling a white man, “Master”, a slave’s daily dread.

Even in the best conditions, the human spirit was not free.
Mistreated; folks who could not take it were shot trying to flee.
A man could dream of Africa and his family all day.
Divided and sold into slavery a painful loss to see.

The Underground Railroad helped slaves run away.
Their owners and hounds tried to catch each stray.
Some of the lucky ones were never found.
Those who were caught for their lives had to pray.

Lincoln tried to free all slaves; the Klu Klux Klan still frowned.
John Wilkes Booth picked up his gun and shot the President down.
Slaves were free per history, but it was not as expected.
For even after the Civil War, burning and lynching did abound.

About one hundred years later, the issue was resurrected.
Rosa Parks stood up for her rights; NAACP directed.
The Civil Rights Movement brought freedom at last.
President Kennedy addressed the nation; equality enacted.


Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2015

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My Thunderous Wondrous Electric Toy Train

Listen to poem:
It was shiny and bright sitting under the tree.
There were other things there, but that's all I could see:
a Lionel toy train on a circular track!
The caboose was maroon and the engine was black.

And to top it all off on this fine Christmas day,
was an engineer's cap that I donned right away.
I had deadlines to make and my job couldn't shirk,
so I rolled up my sleeves, and went straight to my work.

Utilizing impressive construction techniques,
I made Tinker Toy tunnels through newspaper peaks.
With an engine, a caboose, and three railroad cars,
I would ride to the moon and haul back the stars!

It sputtered and sparkled and went round and around
with a clickety clackety sonorous sound,
and an oily ozony odoriferous tang:
my thunderous wondrous electric toy train!

And then Daddy and I had to go out for bread,
and to pick up the big Sunday paper he read.
We're just about home when there was flashing of red...
and the crossbars dipped down at the railroad ahead.

As the freight train slowed up, I could clearly divine
the big engineer's head with a cap just like mine!
We dismounted and yelled, and I signed him three yanks.
He gave me three toots - and I waved back my thanks.

With my engineer's cap and my blue overalls,
I was dressed in a style to give anyone pause!
I had grand places to go and marvels to see...
but Mommy had my breakfast all ready for me.

It sputtered and sparkled and went round and around
with a clickety clackety sonorous sound,
and an oily ozony odoriferous tang:
my thunderous wondrous electric toy train!



Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2014

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THE FREEDOM TRAIN

Run freedom child; keep thy body low amongst the shadows,
Nay never look back, lets hastes speed excel your stride,
For the devil’s steeds ride behind thee, and they’ll show thee
No mercy, run freedom child, run, towards the distant horizon.

Travel beneath the lunar light of the lantern moon, let its
Rays of illumination guild thee, towards liberties jurisdiction,
To the northern boarders beyond slavery's killing fields.
Beware the night-stalkers whom ride by the white lightening’s
Flash and sting at the bared flesh with the task-masters lash,
Humanities wolf pack on a blood scent’s travel, biting at thy
Unsaddled heals, Run freedom child, Run, for they are a Coming!

Deep within the hollows divides listen to the whispering winds,
It echoes with a low mournful tone, a sounding’s rheum vibrating,
With a shock waves raw force of power, it is rails of freedom
Burning towards thee, Harken freedom child, and listen to the
Thunderous cries of the Underground Railroad.
A payments ticket price, is the will to survivor as a free man,
Stamped by the inner beating heart’s desire, to taste the air of
Liberation, and to soar with his winged appendages outwardly
Amongst kindred flock as equals.
Beware my friend for far above thee, two birds of prey are
At battles striking range, for your soul’s precious blood.
Behold the southern night hawk, struggles to drag thee back
 To entrance of hells gates plantation, yet the great eagles
Sharpened talons are driven deeply within its crimson bleeding
Flesh of ignorance, biding thee time to flee to freedoms
Safety zone.

Run freedom child; keep thy body low amongst the shadows,
Nay never look back, lets hastes speed excel your stride,
For the devil’s steeds ride behind thee, and they’ll show thee
No mercy, run freedom child, run, towards the distant horizon.

All aboard cling to the iron handles of the freedom train,
Ride by the light of the shivery moon’s lantern of illumination,
And harken to the sounding’s echo of freedom’s distant winds,
Calling unto the souls of all men to be free, to excel, and to
Soar with the currents of equality as equals, amongst thee
Brother’s kindred.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN









Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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Is it stress

Is it stress,
or loss, despair and survival
we must discuss.
                        Stress is just the symptom
of a universe intent to destroy the individual
before it births new life. It sends the dogs
after us, after the holocaust, in the tattered ruins
of our city.
                There is this despair and expectation
of destruction, but somewhere there is still also
simple sky blue,
flowers among railroad ties,
true love between sexual partners.

Is it sex,
or love, companionship and reliableness
we must expect.
                        Sex, nothing but laying my head
at your cunt, can interest me sometimes. Your legs
lead to a pleasure that seems infinite and smells
perfect.
            So there is this tenderness, a connection
like a suction to the biological that is ephemeral
as snow on the ground,
one elk in aspen,
death and nothing less.







Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

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Queen Of The Rails

The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.

An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.

Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined

Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.

Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.

Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.

Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.

Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday

When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.

But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.

Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved

Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”

She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”

But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.

And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.


Copyright © Jack Clark | Year Posted 2014

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Marrow, Mud, and Loon Lake

What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.

Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.

Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.

The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away, 
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.

Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.

The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls

Bandits would not deride them
	in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.

My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair, 
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?

The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.


Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015

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WOMEN

I miss women,

the magnitude with which they brim, 

overindulging babybirds with crudités 
and warm hors d’oevres, 
tipping all girl evenings with a ferocious focus,
the champagne that pours from rouged lips, 
familiar effervescence.   

I miss their physicality 

Sister Polyhymnia squeezing a quivering hand, 
true poetry, the shoulder offered 
without question or hesitation,
another brushing my hair, motherly strokes, 
unhurried hugs that almost smother.

I miss their emotionality 

the ten thousand words conveyed I
n a single wince, guest room ready, sagaciously  
a hiss
a prayer

and those railroad switch 
conversations, laughter traveling
on tears that comfortably fall,
talk, small and other

I miss them entirely

and I, a woman without women 
in close vicinity, miss
who I am
who I think I am
who I may become

when I am amongst them. 




*For Bet. Sisterhood, a gift that I cherish.

xoxo



Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013

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Wrong Way Out

My knees have touched every part of this floor
Not for the satisfaction one would get from acting out a favorite animal position
But more from being dragged around like an animal 
My disposition was no longer sweet

Cuts and bruises covered my feet
I tried to run
Even tried jumping out the window
Since luck spared me from being thrown from it yet

But every attempt failed
I was jailed
I placed my hands  on the glass
Clear for the world to see
In hopes that someone, anyone
Would save me

Each day I placed another blood stained hand print  on the window
Passerby must have thought I was an artist
Red turkey decorations 
In the middle of summer?
They must have thought it weird 
As they just looked and passed by

My cries were heard only by me
Numerous phone calls made to the police
One time too many, I guess
Because their visits ceased

I was advised to file an Order of Protection
Since the police themselves couldn’t offer protection
My mind was boggled with the thought of useless police
With such closed minds and biased beliefs

It was my fault for being in the situation I was in
Thanks a lot to those women  
Who deceitfully mirrored my pain,
Willfully brought shame to  my name 
For women, they are insane
For thinking this is a game

I am a woman
And because of that
I get  choked with
The insanity cloak
From the first mention of domestic violence
I was so sick and tired of
My pleas for help
Being  greeted with silence

The first chance I got 
I filed an Order of Protection
Thinking this was my underground railroad to freedom

Just to think
I survived through all the punching, slapping, pushing
Rapes and threats
Just to have this order of so-called protection
Place the highest bet 
On my life

I made it under ground and realized
The grass is greener on the other side

But why did I have to die?


Copyright © Latosha Mitchell | Year Posted 2014

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A Railroad Town

The diesel locomotive wailed Like a sick bull as it approached The intersection; five bellows. The dreaded traffic light turned red And all of us just sat waiting For this snail-like, slow-moving Freight train to pass, while the traffic was backing up to infinity. Life becomes a standstill in time: If your appendix burst, pray to god; If you’re in labor, tough titty; If late for work, you curse and swear! So you wait and count the freight cars... One hundred one…one hundred two… Onward west they roll Swaying, screeching, click-clanking Along rusty tracks.


Copyright © Albert Ahearn | Year Posted 2012

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American Osmosis

American Osmosis Jamestown was the source of this Movement that swept across the continent At first the ships were left behind And people used what they could find A mule, an ox, a Percheron Whatever they could sit upon They loaded up and west they went Some went north and some went south They filled the land e're which they went The Louisiana Purchase was the big event That sealed America’s destiny Soon the country was spilling westward To be the first to make a print Where no one else ever went They hoped for happiness as their destiny The Donners never did find any There were others rushed by gold With hopes of riches they would hold But mostly what the immigrants found Was this great nation which was bound To fill her borders sea to sea With citizens like you and me We owe thanks to Conestoga and Civil War Beaver hats and railroad cars Pulled behind the great iron horse Of muskets bore and coon skin caps Horses and cattle and leather chaps Cowboys, six guns and barbed wire fences Rangers, Marshals and bar maid glimpses Pony Express and long coach rides Wagon loads of buffalo hides And the Indians who gave their homes Of mountains and prairies where bison roamed To live among us brave and bold Absorbed by the manifest destiny told Of the American Osmosis


Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2010

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My Valhalla

The great expanse of the Mississippi
just outside a sleepy little ledge-locked
town in western Wisconsin called Maiden Rock,
is where we like to picnic in October.

Above the north/south railroad tracks at a spot
overlooking the river is our favorite picnic table.
A century old working well with an ancient iron, creeky
sledge-handle provides fresh water.

Freight trains constantly rumble past in both both
directions, frantically racing against the coming winter.
The river, 3-miles wide at this stretch, surges a steady
 dominoes of whitecaps down the river.

White Pelicans, with their striking long yellow bills,
huddle in vast rafts of white, just off the current, resting
and feeding on small fish, their migration only
beginning.

Barges, heavy-laden, plow south, pushed by stout
baroque tugs. Behind us, straight-up, limestone
bare bluffs tower, Bald Eagles circling lazily
alongside.

Mom likes the local handmade cheddar-brats, grilled;
on sprouted 9-grain buns with ice-cold spring
water! 
the brats are spittin' sizzlin' cheddar!

 time to go!


10/25/14



Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2014